That Voice of Yours
by December Writing Dragon
Summary: America really digs Russia's accent. So do his citizens. America handles it with as much grace as can be expected of him. RusAme oneshot. Fluff and humor ahead!


Notes: I personally like the idea of America loving Russia's accent. But so do his citizens. And I like the idea of him getting jealous XD Russia is usually the one to exhibit any jealousy; I find it interesting when it goes both ways. To an acceptable extent, of course. Reviews are appreciated!

 **That Voice of Yours (RusAme)**

Russia probably should have realized something was amiss a while ago.

It began with a discussion concerning a topic that had been bothering him for some time.

"America," he began, as the movie Salt played in front of them. They were both draped lazily across America's lush couch before a widescreen television, a bowl of popcorn- now empty- abandoned at their feet.

"Mmm?" America responded distractedly, leaning comfortably into Russia's chest.

"Why do so many of your movie villains have my accent? After all this time?" In a way it felt insulting to himself to compare the way he spoke with some of the things these actors produced. If it had not been specified, Russia would never have guessed some of these people were supposed to be Russian.

America shifted. "Well, I mean…it's just a choice…creative license and all that," he explained lamely.

Russia gave a squeeze about his torso in protest, which earned him a nudge to the ribs. "Alfred," he insisted. "Why must I be the villain in all of these? You do not wish for any of these to change?"

At last America glanced back at him, vivid blue eyes wide as saucers. "It's nothing like that, babe," he said.

"Then why-"

"It's just…I don't know, it's just how it turns out."

"I know you have some say in this,"

"I do! I just…"

"Just do not mind me being shown in this way to your children?"

"Um, you're not one to talk."

"This is not about me right now."

"Fine, look, I'll talk to them. See if anything can change or whatever. But they're going to do what they want, and in the end I won't really be able to do anything about it."

"Thank you," Russia said, turning back to the movie. "I would just like to be seen in a better light. Especially now that we are…" He trailed off.

America turned awkwardly around, planting a chaste kiss on his lips. "I know, babe. Me too. But it isn't so bad, at least."

A pale eyebrow rose. "How do you mean?" Russia asked in confusion.

America gave a noncommittal shrug, suddenly feeling very warm about the ears. "Just…well…the accents are cool."

Both eyebrows now creeped closer to Russia's hairline in bewilderment. "You have me to listen to that accent," he reminded him.

"I know!" America said hastily, now quite red in the face. "But not always! And it's a really cool accent, and makes me think of you, so…"

Russia stared.

America stared back, greatly resembling a deer caught in the headlights. The silence weighed heavily around them, broken by the forgotten movie.

"America," Russia began, slowly, very slowly, choosing each word with care. "Are you being turned on by my accent in movies? Is that why so many must have it?"

"NO!" America said far too quickly. Cover obviously blown, he hung his head and muttered a bitter "yeah."

Russia blinked. "That still does not explain why they must be the villains," he said.

"That I really do have little control over. I just get it in there, they choose the roll."

"I see," Russia said, not really seeing at all.

That had been a month and a half ago, and since then Russia had clued in on other oddities of America's that pointed to his fascination with Russian accents. For example, dinners were now spent with Russia speaking more than America, something that many would believe impossible before then, but sure enough, America did not always drive the conversation, opting instead to listen with a happy, faraway expression. Russia quickly learned to milk this for all it was worth, drawing out the whole experience of America gaping and fawning every time he spoke.

America, meanwhile, knew he screwed up when he let his boyfriend know his weakness. Though, he seemed oblivious to the extent of it.

America was not the jealous type; he would not inquire as to every little thing his boyfriend had done when they were not together- not beyond the scope of casual conversation, anyway. He would not launch an investigation anytime Ivan spoke to anyone else; that really was beyond the brink of sanity. All the same, Alfred cherished being the one to receive such loving looks from the bear of a man, adored being held so tenderly, loved being told such wonderful things about himself. They were all things he would strive to do for Ivan, and he saw that his efforts were appreciated in the looks those violet eyes would send him. It made every second worth it.

He could not, however, help those nasty little flutters in his stomach whenever others tried to hit on Ivan. Whatever the Slav might think about himself regarding his build, nose, and scars, he was attractive. Alfred saw it and, unfortunately, so did others. The exotic accent did not help matters in the slightest.

No. Alas for Alfred, his own citizens very much enjoyed Russia's accent. The way he rolled his r's, the harsh consonants, the almost nasal pronunciation, the flowing vowels, all made a very appealing package. Alfred had caught a few people pause in their own conversations to listen in as Russia spoke of tours he had given in the Hermitage, of the progress his ballet was making, would Alfred like to see a live performance, perhaps followed by a picnic on Sparrow Hill overlooking Moscow. A group of young women had quickly averted their gaze when Russia paused, giggling amongst each other and sending the Russian looks of longing. A man who had been very obviously a native New Yorker minutes before turned to his fellow diners and tried imitating Russia. They merely shook their heads dismissively before eyeing the attractive foreigner Alfred got to call his boyfriend. For good measure, Alfred's hand had flew over to clasp at Russia's. Russia, taking that as a yes to his previous question, merely beamed.

The real straw that broke the camel's back came when they were at the park. It was a rather warm day, so America had suggested they grab some ice cream from a shop just nearby. As Russia placed his order, the woman behind the counter stared with wide awestruck eyes.

"Wow, beautiful accent! Where are you from?" she asked excitedly. Alfred sent her a glower. Ice cream slid dangerously down his cone.

Ivan chuckled. "Thank you very much. I am from Russia."

"Wooow," she breathed, elbows resting on the counter, with every intention of striking up a long conversation. "What part? Will you be here long? I've always wanted to travel abroad. Does everyone sound as hot as you?" she added daringly.

At this, Russia let out a bashful laugh accompanied by a wave of the hand. "Oh, I certainly think they all sound beautiful."

"Yeah," Alfred cut in, voice dripping with acid. "And I got the hottest." His arm snaked around Russia's waist, pulling him closer. Rivers of melted blue ice cream now ran down the sides of his hand.

The woman's eyes widened. "Oh, I didn't know-"

"Yep. We're engaged."

"Alfred?" Ivan asked, his expression one of amused confusion.

"Well, time to go tell your sisters," Alfred cut in, turning them both on heel to march out the door. One person standing in line scrambled for the door, holding it open.

"Thanks," Alfred said dully.

"No problem," the stranger said, not looking at America for a second, having eyes only for Ivan.

" _Spasibo_ ," Russia said courteously.

The stranger beamed. "Any time at all!"

The cone of Alfred's ice cream became a crushed jumble of wafer crumbs.

0o0o0

"Yes, I will have the steak sirloin with string beans and caramelized onions," Russia requested hours later as he and America sat across from each other in a New York restaurant.

"Got it," the waitress said, scribbling down his order. "Wow, cool accent. Can you, like, just read the entire menu?" she half-joked.

"No, he can't," America once again cut in. "His throat is really sore from a bunch of vultures pecking at it asking him to keep saying stuff just cause he talks different. No one even bothered to ask how he feels about it."

"I do not mind," Russia assured gently. "It is nice change, actually. Normally it is only ever associated with being bad guy,"

He knew he was laying it on thick, dropping the articles like that, but it was too interesting to see America's reactions. Because goodness was America expressive. At the sympathetic simper the waitress sent Russia, America gave an annoyed growl. "I always tell him his accent is the accent of heroes," he said.

At this, Russia sent him an amused, knowing look. "Is it, dorogoi?" The waitress was starry-eyed at this point. It took Alfred three attempts to bring her back to earth so he could place his order. When she left, Russia's smile dropped to a look of concern. "Is something wrong, solntse?" he said.

America, on top of not being the jealous type, was also not the type to admit to weakness. But not being the jealous type was not working out to well, so why should this be any different? He slouched in his seat, speaking to the napkin ring. "It's nice seeing everyone be so nice to you, but sometimes I…I guess I just feel…I dunno, not jealous, but something like it."

Russia's gaze softened. Not long into dating, Alfred had come to realize that Ivan himself was capable of being very expressive himself. Between his own personality, and the culture he was immersed in, Russia's emotions, when evoked, could he counted on to be painfully sincere. He would not show them otherwise. The look he sent Alfred now was one of heart-stopping affection. In it was assurance, a kind of silent promise. Alfred felt his stomach churn with warmth. "Fedya, I love you dearly. And that is not about to change for anything. And I know how you feel about me. Nothing anyone else says comes close to the joy you bring me. Now I want you to be able to feel nothing but joyful too. Is there anything I can do to ensure that?"

But Alfred had lost it. "I gotta go- bathroom," he choked out, wiling feverishly at his watery eyes.

"Alfred?" Russia said in mild alarm.

"I'll be right back!" Alfred called, making a beeline for the restroom, muttering something about "stupid sentimental communist, making me cry." Russia settled back into his seat right as the waitress returned with their drinks.

"Spasibo," he muttered distractedly.

"Uuuh…" "Thank you," he amended.

"Oh! Thought so! Any time!" She smiled, but it was amended different smile than the one from before. "Is he alright?" she asked.

Russia glanced at the bathroom door, just visible between the seats and other patrons. "Da, he will be. We worked very hard to get where we are now in our relationship, there is always that worry of something breaking us apart. It takes its toll."

She nodded, certainly not fully understanding, but seemingly willing to try. "I see. I wish you two nothing but luck."

"Spasibo," he said again.

"Anytime."

At that moment Alfred returned with red but dry eyes, only the occasional sniffle giving him away. "You two are really cute together," the waitress said with renewed vigor. America sat, stunned into silence. "Sorry, don't mean to intrude, but you two are the cutest couple here. Treat each other right, okay?" She beamed.

A pale hand wrapped itself around Alfred's. "We plan to!" Russia said for all to hear. Small bursts of applause broke out around them as other restaurant goers nodded in approval. All those people, rooting for them… Alfred gave a watery smile and a wave of gratitude.

0o0o0

"I am sorry you felt bad, solntse," Russia said as he rubbed gentle circles into America shoulder blade. The two were once am gain lounging on America's couch, waiting for a pizza delivery (Alfred had been hungry even after their elaborate meal). "If there is a way I can make up for how you felt, I shall do it."

"Nah, I didn't handle it good," America admitted, tanned fingers skimming over the fine platinum hairs of Russia's arm. "Although, if you're offering, I do have a list."

Russia's arm tightened around him in a tender hug. "I would probably have behaved the same way. I have, actually."

America's brow rose. "Really now?"

"Da- I never told you? When you came to visit last-"

The doorbell rang.

"I'm hearing the rest of this over pizza," America insisted as the two clambered sleepily over to the door.

"Here you are," the delivery man announced, handing over the boxes. As Russia handed over some crisp dollar bills, America braced himself for inevitable.

"Thanks," a distinctively New England voice replied. America stared, dumfounded, at Russia. "Keep the change," that voice said again. No Russian accent. No rolling of the r's. No throaty consonants. A perfectly passable northeastern American accent.

"Where the heck did that come from?" America demanded as soon as the door was closed.

Russia shrugged, idling over back to the couch. "I had to learn to blend in sooner or later."

"No, no, no, we need to talk about this."

"What about that list of yours?" America paused. "I guess we can talk about your little secret later. Here." From his pocket he withdrew a crumpled up piece of paper covered with writing.

Russia was taken aback. "You carry it with you?"

"In case of emergencies. Less asking, more speaking. If you can read all that stuff from that list with that hot accent of you're I'll love you forever."

"I thought we promised to do just that in front of those strangers."

"You know what I mean. Now read."

"Alfred, I am not saying…" he squinted. "Uptown funk you up…?" America beamed.


End file.
